


A Little Dust

by ErisAcolyte



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adult Frisk, Ambiguous-Gender Frisk, Gender-Neutral Chara, I Don't Even Know, Mentions of Gaster, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Route, Powerful Frisk, Violence, Weird Magic, weird BDSM undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisAcolyte/pseuds/ErisAcolyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You never gained LV, but you gained Love." - Sans</p>
<p>But what if that wasn't true?  Post-Pacifist fic; mild pre-shipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Dust

They stand in the endless darkness, clinging tightly to each other. Frisk feels the boy's tears soaking their shoulder through their baggy, dirty sweater and tears come to their own eyes, unbidden.  
  


Why? After everything they had been through-- all the deaths, all the resets. Why couldn't this child be saved?

 

They'd tried so _hard_ to save everyone, to never raise a hand in violence. To be better than the people who'd raised and rejected them. But it seems it wasn't enough, in the end.

 

“Frisk...I have to go now. Without the power of everyone's souls, I can't maintain this form. In a little while, I'll turn back into a flower...”

 

Frisk closed their eyes tight against the rising tears, and tried not to flinch as that cold, quiet voice that had followed them through this strange journey surfaced again, whispering intently in their ear.

 

“ _No. Not like this. **My** Asriel.”_

 

It wasn't hateful, like the rest of the messages had been, growing all the more hateful and desperate as the journey came to its inevitable conclusion. It was no less intense, though-- desperate and possessive.

 

“ _I can do nothing for him. You know what you must do...”_

 

Unbidden, the knife appears in Frisk's hand, while Asriel's thin shoulders shake, the tired monster still unwilling to pull away from his first and only hug in ages.

 

Frisk looked past the child at the knife in their hand. It had only been a shadow, before now. A suggestion of a more brutal path they could have taken, if they had only acceded to the voice's oh, so reasonable requests.

 

But now it was solid, Frisk's misery and the voice's desperation forging the blade into a thing of rust, metal and intent.

 

Asriel snuffled into their sweater, obviously readying himself to pull away from the cocoon of warmth and comfort.

 

“ _Now! Give him his dignity, let him--”_

 

The voice cut off, surprised into silence, as Frisk pulled Asriel close once more, and drove the knife, with unerring accuracy, straight through his back and into his heart, the force of the plunge so hard that they could _swear_ they felt the point of the blade graze their own chest. Asriel went stiff, then mercifully limp. Frisk lowered him gently to the ground, closing the boy's eyes and wincing at his peaceful expression.

 

The knife was in their hand.

 

But the voice was silent.

 

The knife was in their hand and...

 

...Frisk willed it away. There was a sensation, then, of lightening and Frisk new the world would soon snap back to wholeness and light. Frantic, Frisk dropped to their knees, to where Asriel's body was already turning to dust. Monsters spread their loved one's dust something that was precious to them-- Frisk plunged their hands into the small, chill pile of ash and desperately rubbed the dust onto the small, rusted locket around their neck.

 

And then the wind swept up and took the remnants of Asriel away, leaving Frisk only a moment to hide the dusty locket in their sweater before time lurched back into normal and they found themselves surrounded by their new-found friends, alive and whole...

 

***

 

Ten years on, and Frisk wakes in a cold sweat, body tangled hopelessly in the sheets, courtesy of their latest nightmare. A few minutes of de-tangling gets their heart-rate back down, their breathing calm. Sitting up in the gloom of their college dorm, they breathe deep and put their hands over their chest, drawing out their Soul and letting it float in front of them.

 

The small, red heart glowed brightly in the darkness and Frisk felt instantly at peace, again. Learning to control their own Soul had been quite the surprise for everyone. Wasn't Soul magic a monster-only kind of thing? Still, if anyone could manage the impossible, it would be Frisk-- everyone said so.

 

Red magic-- Frisk's magic. The magic to make anyone open their heart and look for the better part of themselves. The magic to sense another's hopes and dreams-- empathy, really. It had been indispensable in the early days after the monsters left the Underground. The humans had been understandably nervous, especially in the face of some of the more terrifying creatures the monster race contained, but Frisk, Asgore and Toriel had strode out together, arms out in peace.

 

And Frisk, in a somewhat surreal turn of events, had become the Monster-Human ambassador. At first, it was more of a media-darling role, since, after all, Frisk was a tiny child. But Frisk never shirked their duty. Love and understanding had seen them through the Underground, so it was damn well going to work above, too.

 

Eventually, pretty much everyone got onboard with the idea. The monsters had made exciting scientific progress that humanity appreciated and, hell, Mettaton had his own show. By the time Frisk was leaving the comfort of Toriel's house for University, the world had more or less made its peace with things.

 

Well, almost. There were still problems, occasionally, and then Frisk would be called upon to be an ambassador again.

 

A snore from the other side of the room spooked them from their reverie. Their room mate, a bunny-creature from Snowdin, was a terrible snorer but, thankfully, a heavy sleeper. And wasn't that a reminder of prejudices still existing? The University had instantly shunted Frisk into a room with the campus' only monster student and just never bothered to say why.

 

Frisk hopped out of bed, too sweaty and tense for sleep. The grey light peeking through the curtains suggested that dawn was near, anyhow. They concentrated and, in a moment of whimsy, sent their Soul swirling around the room before drawing it close again. Up close, Frisk could _just_ about see the tiny crack in the middle.

 

LV. Sans had told them, in the Judgement hall, that they'd never gained any and they'd been so _proud_. It had been so hard, and it had hurt so much-- so many times the voice whispered that it would be easier just to kill the monsters fighting them, that it would hurt less. And they were right, after a fashion, but Frisk knew first-hand what it was like to harden your heart, to go numb to keep yourself safe. And they weren't willing to do it, again...not when there was so much to gain.

 

After all that effort, to have this tiny, terrible crack. And worse, to know that that horrible moment in the darkness was all that it was-- a tiny crack. That and a dusty locket were all that remained of the little boy that saved the Underground. Wincing, they pulled their Soul back into them.

 

Frisk sighed and padded out of the bedroom and into the dorm's communal kitchen, fully intent on breakfast. Their house-mates had left a sink-full of dishes, again, and Frisk sighed, all the more soulfully, as they set to washing the mountain. Once done, they began hunting around for food, only to be suddenly beset by a _hideous_ , wracking pain in their chest that drove them to their knees.

 

Gasping, the dropped to the cool, linoleum floor, eyes closed tight as the pain slowly subsided. They lay on the floor, panting, eyes closed. They'd had attacks before-- usually after a nightmare, or on the rare occasion they got too close to a violent altercation-- but it had never been this... _awful_.

 

The pain ebbing away, they opened their eyes, to see a figure leaning over them with a wide, happy smile. “ _Miss me?”_

 

***

 

So, yeah, the voice was back again. And visible! And it had a name!

 

Frisk kept their head down as they went to class, books clutched tight to their chest. The creature-- Chara-- cheerfully kept pace with them, chattering happily as Frisk tried their damndest to ignore them.

 

“ _University, hm? Not what I would have expected. You're so...soft. I would've imagined you'd be married and surrounded by insufferable children at this point.”_

 

_\--_ You're not real-- Frisk thought back, shaking their head to clear it as they snuck into the back of the lecture hall, already late. Dealing with the sudden appearance of Chara had rather thrown a spanner into their morning.

 

“ _Ha! And look at this professor! He **hates** everyone here-- can't you feel it? Go on! Try!” _ Chara pushed on Frisk's shoulder, impatiently and, desperately wishing this ordeal to be behind them, Frisk surreptitiously drew out their Soul under the desk and focused on the droning Professor at the front of the hall.

 

With a sudden flinch, they quickly pulled their Soul back in. That was _awful_. How could one man be so bitter?

 

“ _Oh, everyone's like that, really. Most people are just good at pretending they're not...I thought you could tell?”_

 

\--I don't go around looking at everyone's heart all the time--

 

“ _Why not? I do. Its the best way to make sure people aren't lying to you.”_

 

\--I hear **trusting** people works out pretty well-- Frisk thought back, annoyed. Chara's laughter rang in their ears for far too long.

 

***

 

Despite being surrounded by friends and family, Frisk had always left themselves apart. Even after the ordeal in the Underground, they had never _quite_ gotten to a point where they'd felt good aobut unburdening their fears and difficulties onto others. It was, perhaps, one of the many reasons they didn't talk much.

 

So years of nightmares had been handled in silence, the same with the strange chest pains and the same with any teasing or fighting that came, over the years, of being the “Monster Lover”. Oh, and being teased for the whole lack of talking thing, too. And the lack of gender thing.

 

But they'd managed, refusing to let anyone-- not even Toriel, who'd they'd quickly come to think of as their own mother-- know that they were anything other than a bright, quiet child. And then a quiet teenager. And now, finally, a quiet adult.

 

That, perhaps, was why they suffered a _week_ of Chara's needling before deciding to do something about it. The nightmares were constant, now and the chest pain was beginning to sap their strength. They packed a bag and texted everyone, telling them that they were going on vacation, that it was important and that they'd be back, soon.

 

Chara found this hilarious but watched, with amiable curiosity, as Frisk got on a bus out to Mt. Ebott, out to the village where they'd grown up. They fell asleep on the bus, and alarmed all the other passengers with their thrashing as they woke from another nightmare. They got off the bus a stop early and walked the rest of the way, head down, shoulders hunched, Chara mocking them the whole way.

 

***

 

They arrived in the village by sundown-- in the years after the Monsters returned, it had become something of a tourist destination, and many of the monsters had settled here, feeling a strange connection the the mountain they had once called home.

 

Frisk avoided the main streets and kept to themselves, unwilling to answer the questions that would undoubtedly greet their arrival. Unbidden, they found their footsteps taking them to their old house. No one had claimed it since they left, and it had fallen into disrepair. In a somewhat poetic turn, the flora of the mountainside had overtaken it, quite impressively, and Frisk's breath caught as they put a hand out to the brilliant yellow flowers that grew, improbably, up the house's sides.

 

“ _How nice. Why not go inside? You're tired.”_

 

Frisk sighed, but pushed the door open with some effort. The house was in a shambles, but they couldn't help but see it as it was when they were young. Wincing, they tiptoed through the wreckage, feeling like an intruder in a tomb. They found their own bedroom, the bed miraculously still intact and a sudden weariness and lassitude washed over them.

 

“ _It looks comfortable.”_

 

Too tired to argue, Frisk collapsed onto the small bed and quickly fell asleep...

 

***

 

A hard slap to the face woke them.

 

“Frisk! Wake up!” A voice stirred them from their stupor and they looked around, bewildered by their surroundings. They were standing at the gateway to the Underground, the gaping maw where the barrier once stood. A cold breeze blew past them and they realised it was dark.

 

A dark figure stood before them, a single eye blazing blue in the darkness before fading. “Sans?” Frisk blinked, surprised into speaking.

 

“The one and only-- what are you doing out here?” He looked them over, rictus grin dropping to as concerned frown.

 

“I...” Frisk frowned and shook their head, irritated. --Damnit, Chara. **I'm** doing the walking--

 

High-pitched laughter rang in their ears as Chara appeared, standing behind Sans and grinning, sardonically. _“We_ _ **both**_ _know_ _ **that's**_ _not true._ ”

 

Frisk winced, but rallied and looked pointedly at Sans, then pointed at the caverns beyond.

 

“I got that, kid. But why?”

 

“Got something to do.”

 

“Wanna' explain?”

 

Frisk shook their head, tightly, and checked to see that their backpack was still there. They tugged on the strap, thankful for small mercies, and began walking into the cavern, pausing only to get out a flashlight and use it to pierce the gloom of the cavern.

 

Sans sighed in a long-suffering way. “Want company?” Frisk looked back at him, surprised. Sans shurgged, grinning. “Wouldn't want you to get...bonely.”

 

Frisk groaned, but nodded. If they sent Sans away, they'd just have more questions to answer, later. Thankfully, the nod was all that was necessary, as Sans quietly shoved his hands into his pockets and fell into step with Frisk as they began their journey back into the Underground.

 

***

 

The journey went in silence until they reached the ruins. Plaques graced the walls here and there, for tourists to be enlightened by. It was deathly quiet, here, as not even Ribbits lived her now, and Frisk was briefly caught up in reminiscing about their first trip through these Ruins, with a different monster by their side.

 

Was Mom worried about them? They bit their lip as another stab of pain lanced through their chest. If Sans had noticed their lethargy, they hadn't mentioned. Which was nice, in a way. Toriel would have fussed over them by now, Papyrus would've suggested a plate of his (still terrible) spaghetti and Undyne would have sworn that a good work out session would cure what ailed them but Sans?

 

Sans knew the value of silence.

 

Until they got to Toriel's old house in the Ruins and a bright blossom of pain in Frisk's chest made them stagger. “Kid, I'm not going to sugar-coat it. You look like crap.” Sans quipped, leaning against the front door. “Wanna' tell me why, yet?”

 

Frisk shook their head, stubbornly.

 

“Suit yourself but...look, Toriel gave me the spare key to this place. She kept all the tourists out. Ya' wanna' go in and sit down for awhile?”

  
Frisk paused, then nodded, tiredly. They couldn't keep going even if they wanted to, now. Sans opened the front door and held it open as Frisk staggered in, collapsing into Toriel's armchair by the fire and pouting, faintly, at the unlit fireplace.

 

“No fire magic, kiddo. I've never had the...spark.”

 

Frisk snorted, tiredly, and their head drooped as sleep overtook them, again.  
  


***

 

Sans looked on in alarm as Frisk went out like a light, their shoulders _finally_ relaxing from the stubborn hunch they'd been in throughout the walk. Frisk had never been a demonstrative sort, but you didn't know someone for this long without getting some sort of sense for their moods.

 

Sans sighed, setting about to starting the fire the old-fashioned way. Frisk had been such a _tiny_ kid. He didn't know much about humans, other than the ones that had fallen in before, but Frisk had always seemed smaller, more vulnerable. And you didn't have to be a genius to see how quick they were to flinch, how they ignored injuries that would've sent normal kids crying to their mamas...or how many old injuries they already had when they got here.

 

Every kid who fell to the Underground did so for a reason, even if those reasons were usually as simple as “I didn't watch where I was going and tripped.” But usually, the kids were keen to tell people about it, to explain that they had lives and families to be getting back to...well, if they weren't the kids who decided to come in swinging. He winced, remembering stories of the girl in the dust-covered tutu.

 

But Frisk had been...quiet. And nobody had asked. They'd all been wrapped up in their own pain, their own problems and guilt. Once they were free of the Underground, Sans had looked Frisk up, had figured things out.

 

Nothing special-- alcoholic mother, angry father. The sort of tragedy that played out in households around the world with depressing frequency. Sans had left well enough alone, respecting the kid's silence and watching as Frisk grew from determined, frowning child into happy, whole adult.

 

Still too skinny, though, he though, as Frisk pulled their over-sized sweater closer in their sleep, frowning. Sans tapped his own ribs, idly, as the fire suddenly caught and filled the room with a dim, but cheery glow.

 

He wandered off to the kitchen to see if there were still salvageable tea things, when a faint, high scream sent him racing back into the room. Frisk was still asleep, but twisting in their chair, their back arching. With a strangled noise, their Soul manifested outside them, red as ever and pulsing erratically. They began to make as if to stand, their eyes snapping open with an eerie hollowness. Their movements were slow and sluggish and, on a wild hunch, Sans reached out with his magic and turned Frisk's heart blue.

 

He was more than a little surprised to feel resistance to his magic, but he quickly overpowered it and Frisk dropped back into the armchair, eyes closed in sleep once more, the stress leaving their face. Sans narrowed the hollow chambers of his eyes and went over to where Frisk was slumped in a much more restful looking sleep, putting a bony hand on their forehead. Frisk was boiling with fever, their skin pale and beaded with sweat.

Sans frowned deeper and looked over at Frisk's exposed Soul, glowing brightly in the eerie blue of his magic. It was not really... _done_ , holding onto someone's Soul with magic like this. You only really did it if you were going to fight someone because otherwise, well, it was holding onto their _Soul_. Hell, most monsters didn't do it to each other...it was considered kind of...possessive.

 

And in his darkest moments, he remembered the timelines in which he'd had to fight Frisk. Having that sort of power over another person was intoxicating, to say the very least. But he'd never had to do it to _this_ Frisk, who nearly panicked when they _fake_ hit Undyne that one time.

 

It...it still felt intoxicating. He shook his head, berating himself and then stopped, shocked, when he saw Frisk's Soul up close.

 

“...when did you get LV, kid?”

 

***

 

For the first time in more than a week, Frisk slept peacefully. The nightmares were still there, but they seemed distant, as if viewed from behind the safety of frosted glass. Chara was out there, too, but Frisk couldn't hear their voice. They were cocooned, oddly enough, in a field of blue energy. It kept them weighted down, but it was more like being held tight than being crushed. An odd, possessive feeling, but oddly comforting.

 

When they finally awoke, it was to a world less filled with pain, and the faint scent of...instant noodles?

 

They blinked, feeling a brief tingle as they sat up. Had...had their _Soul_ been out? Frisk tapped their chest, but only felt the cold hardness of the locket under their sweater. Looking around, they smiled faintly as they saw Sans bring out a mug with a cheery cartoon snail on it. Wordlessly, the skeleton passed them the mug which, yes, _definitely_ contained ramen. A growl reminded Frisk that they were starving and they nodded gratefully as Sans before eating a (mostly flavourless) cup of ramen in record time.

 

Sans leaned forward on the chair he was straddling, idly downing a bottle of ketchup. “So...how ya' feeling?”

 

Frisk blinked, slurping up the last, errant noodle. The nodded, firmly.

 

“You sure? Last I checked, healthy _Frisky_ people don't pass out at the drop of a hat.”

 

Frisk looked down at their knees and carefully put the mug on the table by the armchair. Toriel's book on snails was still there, dusty from years of neglect. Frisk idly traced the cover, wincing at their dusty coated fingertips.

 

“Not gonna' answer me?”

 

Frisk frowned and wiped their fingers off on their sweater, standing with more strength than they'd felt in some time. They shook their head, firmly.

 

Sans stared at them for a long time, the lights eerily absent from his eye-sockets. “Suit yourself.”

 

Frisk winced at the flatness of his tone, but nodded, striding down the hall and down the staircase, towards the Underground.  
  


 

***

 

Once out in the Underground at large, Frisk marvelled at the gentle snow falling all around them. They'd taken it for granted as a child; just another weird thing in a long line of weird things. Now, as an adult, they found themselves struck by the strange beauty of an underground forest covered in snow.

 

“ _You're weird, you know that?”_

 

Frisk blinked, warily, as the sudden reappearance of Chara, who walked on their left side, as Sans walked silently at their right. And if that isn't a metaphor, I don't know _what_ is, Frisk thought, ruefully.

 

“ _He's no angel.”_ Frisk frowned. --Stay out of my head--

 

Chara shrugged, amiably and kicked up drifts of snow. Illusory, really, since San didn't seem to notice, but they looked so... _real_. Chara smiled, in that wholly sweet way they sometimes did.

 

“ _Really...you may have forgotten, but I **promise** you, he didn't.” _ Chara sing-songed cheerfully. Frisk risked a glance at them, confused. --What do you mean?--

 

“ _I mean the many, **many** times he's killed you, before.”_ Chara replied simply, laughing in a gentle, musical way.

 

Frisk flinched, and winced when Sans glanced their way, shaking their head at him and sighing at his frown. --He hasn't...--

 

But Frisk couldn't say that with one hundred percent certainty, could they? Sans had often seemed ominous to them as a child, in a way they could never define. And the cryptic remarks, the habit of being _exactly_ wherever they were needed...that strange threat in Hotland...

 

Frisk had eventually come to believe that Sans was somehow aware of the resets, but what if there was more to it than that?

 

“ _Oh, there is. **Much** , much more.”_ Chara laughed, companionably, before leaning in, hands tight on Frisk's shoulders as they hissed in their ear, “ _And you better **believe** he'll do it again, once he knows what's wrong with you, my little killer.”_

 

A sudden, dizzying burst of pain and Frisk's vision blurred. They stumbled, barely hearing Sans' shout as they dropped to their knees in the snow...

 

***

 

The Judgement Hall...

 

...light streamed, improbably golden and bright, into the high, pillared chamber. Frisk was only eight again, their clothes hanging off of their thin frame, a knife gripped tightly in their trembling hand. No, not just any knife-- _the_ knife.

 

Sans stood before them, the light missing from the deep, black sockets of his skull. “Aw, you look unhappy? What's wrong? Tired of dying? Well that's too bad--”

His eye suddenly glowed a bright and terrible blue. “--I bet you give up before I do, you dirty brother-killer.”

 

And then Frisk was fighting for their life, in a battle more deadly than any they'd ever been in before. Blue magic filled the world and bones shattered around them and, when they dodged too slowly, _in_ them. Pulling a shard of bone from their shoulder with a spray of blood, they rolled quickly to their feet and tried to drop the knife in their hand...but they _couldn't_. Eyes wide with panic, they could only watch helplessly as Sans brutally tore their Soul from their chest and turned it blue, slamming their Soul, and _them_ to the ground with the force of his magic.

 

“If you were really ever my friend, you wouldn't come back this time.” He whispers, eye alight with cold fury as bones burst through from the floor and through their chest, driving them painfully back into the darkness.

 

***

 

“Wanna explain _now_?” Sans' face was the first thing they saw, coming to in a strange, unkempt bed. They immediately scrambled away, terrified by the blue light in his eye. They couldn't move properly and noted, with growing panic, that their Soul was outside themselves, glowing a brilliant blue.

 

Frisk noted, somewhat distantly, that this was their first panic attack in _ages_ , as spots began to dance before their eyes and their heart pounded...er, _outside_ their chest. The light suddenly flickered out in Sans' eye and the blue glow vanished. Frisk's Soul slammed back into their body as they gasped and shuddered on the bed.

 

Sans looked pained and gingerly approached Frisk, putting a hand on their shoulder and wincing when they flinched. Suddenly, and to his unending surprise, Frisk launched themselves at him and buried their head in his hoody, sobbing.

 

Alarmed, He drew Frisk close and hugged them, tightly, frowning at how hot and clammy their skin was, and how rapidly their heart was hammering against his rib cage. Already chiding himself, he quietly summoned his magic back and wrapped it around Frisk's Soul, again, murmuring soothing nonsense in their ear until Frisk's breathing calmed and their heart rate evened out, again.

 

***

 

Frisk couldn't believe that vision was true-- it hurt too much. So they did what they always did when something hurt them, they reached out with love. Hugging one of the skeleton brothers was always a slightly weird experience, but Frisk couldn't bear another moment of reliving that horrible vision. They felt the sudden wash of power come over their Soul as the buried their head in San's hoody. The blue magic...from their dream...from that vision.

 

They felt, deep within themselves, the LV rising to fight against the blue magic that held them firm, but they shook it off. _This_ wasn't the magic that had torn their chest open and left them to bleed out on the Judgement Hall floor. This was the magic they'd felt in their dreams. Quietly, they opened their heart and used their red magic to tentatively feel it out.

 

It was Sans, definitely. Who knew he was so _powerful_? The strength of his magic was frankly ridiculous-- he could probably give Asgore a run for his money. Still waters, indeed.

 

Frisk reached out further, cautious but terribly curious. Sans' feelings were usually well guarded, but the intermingling of their had laid him bare. Fear, concern and an overwhelming, obsessive love were washing through the skeleton in front of them. All those feelings, and all for Frisk. Somewhat selfishly, Frisk felt themselves filling with Determination in the wake of these feelings and leaned into the hug, breathing in the strange smell of ketchup and snow from his hoody.

 

Eventually, though, Sans pulled away, and with him, so too went his magic as Frisk's Soul disappeared within them once more and his eyes had only their normal glow. He looked them over, his expression hard to read. They stared silently at one another for a long moment and Frisk surprised them both by blushing, faintly.

 

Sans coughed. “Right...sorry for spooking you, kid.” He blinked, and grinned. “Shouldn't be doing that-- I'm a skeleton, not a ghost.”

 

Frisk laughed, quietly. “Lame pun.” They offered, tiredly.

 

“I'm under a bit of stress, kid. Gimme' a break.”

 

“Mmm'kay...which bone?” Frisk quips, and instantly regrets it when they hear Chara's appreciative laugh. Chara has appeared behind Sans, the knife in their hand, idly waving it about like a conductor's baton.

 

Unable to school their expression in time, Frisk can only wince as Sans follows their gaze and looks confused at the empty air behind him.

 

Frisk grabbed his arm and shook their head, firmly. Sans met their gaze and then sighed. “Fine, kid...but when this is all over...whatever _this_ is...I want an explanation.”

 

Frisk pauses, then nods, firmly, shakily getting off the bed and looking around in confusion at the small, messy room.

 

“Heh, my old room.” Sans offered, kicking a wadded up ball of clothing, idly. “Had to drag you here when you passed out...again.

 

“ _He truly **is** a monster.”_ Chara pipes up, taking in the room with a distasteful expression. They seem to move like lightning, beside Frisk in a flash, their hands digging into Frisk's shoulders like iron claws as they make their somewhat unsteady way out of the room, Sans following along quietly.

 

***

 

Chara is a silent, heavy weight on Frisk's shoulders until they're in Waterfall.

 

“ _Want to know what he's thinking?”_ Chara offers, teasingly, flexing their vice-like grip on Frisk's shoulders.

 

\--No--

 

“ _He's deciding whether he wants to kill you or fuck you? Isn't that twisted?”_ Chara asks, in the casual tones that one would use to describe the weather. Frisk paled, staggering briefly, but Sans hadn't noticed, seemingly distracted by a nearby echo flower.

 

“ _He's **really** on the fence, there. What **must** he be like, to get those two things so tangled up in that crazy skull of his?”_

 

\--Shut up--

 

“ _No, I think you need to hear this, my little Frisk-let.”_ Chara laughs, red eyes flashing with a sudden viciousness. “ _That power of his-- you felt it, I'm sure. It could take you over, you know. He could have you begging like a dog on a leash for him...or he could crush your heart like one of these pretty little flowers.”_

 

Chara patted an echo-flower, mock-solicitously and Frisk flinched as the flower's glow went out before wilting to its death. This time that _did_ actually happen, as Sans looked back at Frisk and then down at the flower in mild surprise. “Huh, thought these things could survive _anything_...” He muttered, not noticing Frisk's look of abject horror.

 

“ _Oh, yes. I'm getting more powerful, by the way.”_ Chara added, flipping their messy hair back in a mock-flippant manner. “ _Hadn't you noticed?”_

 

Frisk frowned and quickly set off down the path, again, Sans hurrying to catch up to them.

 

“ _I can protect you from him, you know.”_ Chara murmured, idly, checking their fingertips like a lady fresh from the salon. _“I mean, come **on**. Best case scenario, you hide your...little problem from him successfully, but he's gotten such a taste for your Soul that he wants nothing more than to possess, utterly...I know the feeling.”_

 

Chara giggles, pleasantly. _“_ _ **Worse**_ _case scenario? You lose control in a_ _ **big**_ _way and Sans...well, he's always been able to see the greater good, when it comes down to it.”_

 

A flash of the Judgement Hall, of the grimly brutal Sans, of the death raining down around them. Frisk shudders, seeing a faint image of the knife in their hand.

 

“You're not still cold, are you?” Sans suddenly asks, breaking Frisk's unpleasant reverie. “We'll be in Hotland soon...”

 

Frisk nods, tightly, looking down and seeing, with relief, that the spectral knife had vanished, once more. Silently, they make their way down to the riverbank, where the Ferry monster is still there.

 

Sans and Frisk share a look of surprise, but gingerly board the little raft as the monster driving them along sings cryptically about a man who speaks in hands. Frisk notices Sans' sudden distant expression and tugs at his sleeve, concerned.

 

Sans looks over, surprised, then grins. “Nuh-uh. You've got your secrets, I've got mine.”

 

***

 

They arrive in Hotland without any great incident, though Frisk is more than a little unnerved when the Ferry monster _bows_ to them.

 

The knife is in their hand, again, they note as they head further into the sweltering heat of the aptly-named Hotlands. It looks worryingly real this time, and Frisk hurriedly puts their hands behind their back.

 

Sans looks up at the distant machinery of the Core, his expression closed off, and Frisk can't help but wonder how much they missed when they were a child. Had Sans always been like this? Had they just been too wrapped up in their own problems to notice? Frisk repressed a snort. Imagine, they had been trying _so_ hard to save everyone that they completely failed to notice is Sans had needed their help.

 

They could check now...but Sans had let them keep their secrets, it was only fair that they did the same. And if Chara was right about the timelines, then Frisk wasn't the only one with the weight of

death weighing them down.

 

“ _Of course I'm right. I'm always right.”_ Chara cheers, smugly, gesturing at Alphy's lab in the distance. _“Head that way, will you? I want something._ ”

 

With an almost perverse thrill, Frisk veers away from the looming laboratory, only to instantly regret it as Chara reaches into their chest and pulls out their Soul, giggling as the warm, bright red goes the colour of fresh blood and Frisk screams, horribly as the black out, once more.

 

***

 

Sans is instantly there to catch Frisk as they fall, their face deathly pale. The lab is nearby and he calls up his magic to carry them inside, depositing them on Alphys' dusty old couch, frowning unhappily. Frisk immediately begins shaking, violently, as in the throws of some great battle and, this time, Sans decides to let nature take its course.

 

The fight lasts a while, but then Frisk goes limp, eyes suddenly snapping open with that strange, hollow expression. They stand, swaying unsteadily and walk towards the door to the True Lab, their steps getting more and more steady as they go. Sans' frown deepens, but he follows them into the darkness.

 

The place is every bit as creepy as he remembered it from back when he was working with Dr. Gaster-- all dim lighting and flickering screens with eerie, cryptic messages on them. Some of the messages are written in Gaster's bizarre shorthand, and Sans forces himself not to tarry and translate them. The past is in the past...mostly.

 

He sighs and hurries to catch up with the silently moving Frisk, who suddenly comes to a halt in front of a strange, silent behemoth. It looks faintly plant-like, with depressions where eyes and mouths could hang. Its...really very awful.

 

There's a desk nearby, but the notes are in a terrible state. Frisk stares blankly at the immobile horror on the wall for a long moment, before turning and heading into a small side room. Curious, Sans follows and watches as they take videos down off of a small shelf and pop one into an ancient VHS nearby. A video flickers into life with sound, but no image.

 

“Chara, make your scary face!” A small, tinny voice comes from the blank screen. A young boy's voice. The hollow Frisk runs their fingers across the screen and listens to the tape, all the way through. It transpires that the kid in the video had the lens cap on. Another video, then another-- the lens cap thing seems to be a thing. Frisk plays the ones with the boy's voice in them over and over, before eventually resting their head against the TV screen with a strange look of peace to their otherwise eerily blank features...

 

...and then Frisk slumps over, asleep once more.

 

***

 

Frisk isn't even surprised to be waking up on Alphys' couch. They _are_ surprised at the headache, though...and the chest pain. Instead of a sudden, sharp shock, there appears to be a constant, low pain. Frisk coughs, and the pain flares as their vision swims.

Sans is instantly beside them, holding out a bottle of water. They take it, quickly and firmly ignore the sudden appearance of Chara on the other side of them. Chara seems subdued, but happy, stroking Frisk's back in an unpleasantly _tender_ way as Frisk downs the bottle of water like, well...an Undyne in Hotland.

 

Sans watches them, carefully. “You know, when you pass out, something takes you over. You look like you're fighting it but, kid--- _Frisk_ \-- its not a fight you win.”

 

Frisk sighs and finds themselves relaxing, despite themselves, as Chara begins gently carding their fingers through Frisk's matted, sweaty hair, cooing gently.

 

“ _He's not wrong, you know. You fight **so** hard, my little Frisk.”_ Frisk closes their eyes, tight, against Chara's soothing voice and reaches out, blindly, relieved to feel Sans' bony hand close around theirs.

 

“ _You could stop fighting at anytime, you know. It would stop hurting, you know...”_ Chara's voice is close by their ear, practically purring as their hands wrap possessively around Frisk's neck. _“Who knows...you might even **like** it.”_

 

Frisk melts and feels the warmth of Chara's blood red magic wrapping warmly, lovingly around their heart, dragging them down into this intoxicating feeling of being held.

 

“ **NO!”** Frisk suddenly shouts, sitting bolt upright, Soul bursting from their chest and flaring blindingly bright, hot red, like the cherry glow of an ember at the heart of a great blaze. Sans threw an arm over his eyes, but held onto Frisk's hand, tightly.

 

The glow eventually subsided and Sans lowered his hand, surprised at how bright and _steady_ Frisk's eyes suddenly looked.

 

“Sans.” Frisk stood, squeezing Sans' bony hand and then letting go. He held his hand out for a moment, before letting it drop to his side, feeling more than a little off-kilter. He'd known that Frisk had created some strange _red magic_ of their own, but he'd never known how powerful it could be.

 

“I want...I _need_ to tell you something.”

 

“Sure thing, ki-- Frisk.” Sans agreed, nodding faintly.

 

“I killed someone.”

 

“...I know.”

 

“You _know_?”

 

Sans taps his own chest, smiling sadly. “I checked when you passed out.” Idly, he flicks his bony digits and Frisk's Soul hovers between them, slowly fading from red to blue as he holds it, tightly, for inspection. They both stare at the crack in the centre, eyes widening at how much it seems to have spread, glowing a sickly, blood-tinged red.

 

“...what's _happening_ to you?” Sans asked, surprised at the way his voice breaks. Its not supposed to be like this. This is _his_ Frisk. The one that laughs at his jokes, the one that makes Toriel smile, the one who would never lay a finger on Papyrus, would never look at him with that blank, creepy smile.

 

Frisk suddenly shudders and sobs, brokenly. “I can't keep Chara out anymore!”

 

Said out loud, the name sounds like a malevolent curse and Frisk's Soul pulses, as if trying to shake off Sans' magic. Sans instinctively tightens his grip, his eye blazing blue. Too hard, he thinks, as Frisk drops to their knees, unable to stay standing.

 

He goes to loosen his grip, but Frisk shakes their head. “No. Keep...hold on to me.”

 

Sans would pale, were he not made of bone, but he nods, shakily. “...tell me everything.”

 

So they do. They explain Flowey, explain the plan to help _everyone_ , explain the constant whispering and fight for control with Chara and finally, they explain how, in a moment of awful heartache, they finally let Chara in...and killed Asriel.

 

They sob at the end and Sans drops down to fold Frisk into his arms, pulling them close with both his magic and his arms, “Chara won't have you-- I promise.”

 

***

 

Frisk gasped as Sans pulled them close, squeezing hard enough to hurt, squeezing like he was trying to stop Frisk from flying apart...and maybe, Frisk thought, ruefully, he was. They reached out to the magic holding them fast and felt that overwhelming, desperate, _possessive_ love. It crashed into them like a wave and their eyes rolled back in their head for a moment, before they hugged Sans back, as tight as they could.

 

The crouched like that for awhile, holding each other as if doing anything else would kill them both, but Sans eventually relaxed his grip.

 

“Tell me what we're doing down here, Frisk.” He said, clearly demanding, not questioning. Frisk sighed, steadying their breathing. This was more talking than they'd done in _ages_ \-- all the more reason to want to be rid of Chara.

 

“Gut feeling. Get rid of the knife, get rid of Chara.” Frisk managed.

 

“What knife?” Sans replied, slowly, with a face that suggested he already knew damn well _what_ knife. Still, Frisk opened their hand and, with worrying ease, the large, rust-stained knife appeared.

 

It was surprisingly mundane, for that blade that had caused so much agony. It looked like a kitchen knife. Large, the handle slightly worn. But perhaps that was fitting. They both stared down at it, uneasy, and Frisk jumped when Chara's hand appeared, spectral and diffuse, around their own.  
  


“ _Oh, go on...”_ Chara murmured, but their voice seemed faint.

 

Frisk suddenly, grinned, and the knife vanished. “Your magic-- when you're holding me, Chara can't get in.”

 

Sans blinked, surprised. “Really?”

 

Frisk nodded, firmly, and stood, filled with Determination. “Lets go.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“The Core.”

 

***

 

Frisk stalked up the stairs towards MTT and the Core, each step forward a small, but significant victory. Sans' magic was weighing them down, but it was a comforting, steadying weight. Sans, for his part, had Frisk's hand grasped tightly in his.

 

Frisk could easily feel his concern and trepidation growing as they moved. He'd explained, on the way up, that monsters didn't do this to other monsters, often. It was too close, too intimate.

 

“ _Too controlling.”_ Chara had interjected, irritated at their sudden lack of influence over Frisk.

 

But Frisk was determined to see this through, and better Sans, the skeleton they trusted more than anyone in the world, than Chara. Sans had been forced to agree and Frisk had quipped, silently, to Chara: --Hey, you were _right_. He _can_ see the greater good--

 

Chara had just snarled, and had grown quiet.

 

By now, they had reached the Core, looking down from the platform at the swirling vortex of energy. Sans looked down, too, his grip on their hand suddenly tighter than ever. “This plan better not include you jumping in.” He joked, voice faint.

 

Frisk shook their head, and manifested the knife again, smiling grimly as it landed, heavily, in their hand. Chara immediately appeared, frowning.

 

“ _I know you **think** you're making the right decision, here, but **do** let me remind you...”_

 

***

 

The Judgement hall. Light streaming in through the high, stained glass windows. The spark of light as Frisk resets, stalking down the hall, filled with DETERMINATION...and nothing more.

 

They feel oddly empty, but that's okay. Nothing hurts, anymore. Nothing will ever hurt them, again. Chara stalks along beside them, creepy smile replaced by a real, feral grin of savage intent.

 

“Back again?” Sans quips, voice hard as they approach him, knife firmly in hand. “I can do this forever, you know.”

 

“ **No, you can't.”** Frisk _intones_ , but its not just Frisk, its Frisk and Chara together, their Souls in perfect harmony. A strange exhilaration thrills through Frisk as Chara's power washes through their Soul. **“You're too much a of lazy bones, Sans. Not lifting a finger until its far, _far_ too late.”**

 

They dash forward, hissing as they slash at him with the knife. **“And that's why Papyrus died, you** _ **dirty brother-killer**_ **.”**

 

Sans flinches, but still expertly ducks the blow, a giant skull appearing in the air behind him. It lights up with an explosion of blue light and Frisk-Chara _screams_ as they're torn apart.

 

***

 

Frisk staggers, suddenly on the platform overlooking the Core, again. Their Soul is still hovering in the air, but it red, again. Blood red-- the colour of Chara's magic.

 

Sans picks himself up from where the sudden burst of power from Frisk had sent him skidding away. His own Soul shakes, unsteadily, its light flickering in a worrying way. When had Frisk gotten so _powerful?_

 

In the other timelines, Sans had always managed to kill Frisk at the Judgement Hall but it _had_ become more and more difficult to do so, each time. What if--

 

“ **Yes, Sans. What** _ **if**_ **each time we reset, we grew more powerful?”** The voice is like Frisk's but flat and cold. This is the Frisk from the other timelines...no, he thinks, grimly, eye flickering blue, this is _Chara_.

 

“ **There's more than one way to gain LV, silly skeleton.”** Frisk stalks towards him, head low, knife held firmly in their hand. **“Level of Violence...such a funny term for it. If killing hardens your Soul, dear Sans, what do you think _dying_ over, and over, and _over_ again do to it?”**

 

Frisk throws back their head, laughing wildly, before suddenly staggering, teeth gritting in determination. Their Soul's colour flickers wildly from blood to cherry red, before settling on Frisk's warm, loving red-- but the crack is _huge_ now.

 

“Sans-- your magic. NOW.” Frisk grits, staggering towards the edge of the platform, holding out the knife in a trembling hand.

 

Sans nods, and throws out his magic, struggling as Frisk-- as Chara-- fights him off. And then he can _see_ it! Like an unholy mirror of Frisk, eyes blood red and alight with unholy rage. **“Frisk is MINE!”** It _roars,_ shaking the platform with the strength of its fury.

 

Sans can feel himself losing his grip on Frisk, can feel their Soul warming to Chara's demonic power. “Like hell it is!” He shouts, throwing both hands out to force as much magic through him as he can. His first eye already blazing, he grinds his teeth together as the second one lights up, too. More power flows through him than he's ever used before and he can _hear_ Gaster's soft, sorrowful voice, desperately warning him, can practically _see_ him there, reaching out to him...

 

Sans howls in desperation as Frisk screams, Soul flaring wildly. “Frisk! _You_ need to do this! Stay determined!”

 

And suddenly, Frisk is looking at him and Frisk's eyes are glowing red-- but its _Frisk's_ magic, _Frisk's_ power. The red of their magic and the blue of Sans' swirl together and its brighter and more glorious than anyone could possibly imagine.

 

***

 

Once before, the world had been nothing more than a black space, while time stood aside and let a small human child hold a little monster boy close for the first time in forever.

 

Now the world is burned white, and nothing exists but Frisk, Sans, Chara and the void of the Core beneath them. Chara cowers on the floor, flickering in and out of existence, while Frisk glows with the light of a thousand suns, their magic a beautiful, terrifying fusion of Sans' and their magic. Purple, fittingly. Sans winces at the brand, new crack in his skull _right_ over his eye, but still holds out his hand, awed at the sight of them, and the glowing figure takes it, gently.

 

“Never let me go again.” Frisk whispers, the words boring straight into his Soul.

 

“Never.” He agrees and they take the knife between them and throw it into the void, together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
